


Still a Chance

by cowboycruncher



Series: Nexitus Collection [6]
Category: Original Work, Valdonia: Realm of Mages
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Brutal Murder, Canon-Typical Violence, Graphic Description, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-16 20:46:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28962654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cowboycruncher/pseuds/cowboycruncher
Summary: “Don’t do it, Prax,” Nelles warned.“I’m going to kill you this time, you know that?”
Relationships: Praxitus Calciphorum/Nelles Penet
Series: Nexitus Collection [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1934908
Kudos: 2





	Still a Chance

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Noah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Noah/gifts).



Nelles planted each foot carefully, peering at the surreptitious manor that surrounded him. Years of agony, grief and sorrow had brought him to this location—he cared not for Sanctums Demise and their supposed cultist beliefs. No, instead, he had a much more personal question afoot and he would be damned before he abandoned it. The front room was shrouded in darkness, illuminated solely by the moonlight filtering in through the windows. A roaring fire in the study sectioned off by an archway to his left provided little light and a faint crackling, casting a calm demeanor about the palace of woe despite how eerie the building was by default. It was silent around him aside from his own breathing, emphasized only by his partially parted lips as his grey eyes adorned every detail they could discover.

Something felt wrong or… off about the large estate. It was lavish, expensive, and perhaps years ago it was as extravagant as Nelles imagined it had once been. Withdrawing his bow from its sheath along his back, he equipped it with an arrow, lazily drawing back the string. A sliver of instinct perturbed him, whispering methodically in his ear that he was unsafe in this setting and for many reasons, he understood why he felt such a way. The truth of Sanctums Demise had stunned the political crowd—what they found more disgusting, be it the murders or the forbearing plans that the Ringmaster had crafted, Nelles knew not. Its matter was inconceivable, it did not deter him from his destination. It felt as though Praxitus was growing tangible again; he had slipped through Nelles’ fingers time and time before like some sort of boiling liquid that scorched his skin upon contact.

Covering his corners, he inched around the room, expertly crossing one leg over the other as he kept his dorsal to the cold walls. If someone _were_ there, he was unsure he was prepared to face them, especially if it was Aleksei. Perhaps an unwise decision of him to come alone—of that he was keenly aware, but nevertheless his brother and Ilias had insisted that his search was in vain and his whereabouts remained unknown to them. It was then that a floorboard creaked beneath his nimble toe. Halting, he became still, holding his breath as fear pounded in his eardrums. Footsteps on the landing above his head informed him that he was not as alone as he had originally prayed to have been.

They descended the steps to Nelles’ right, one stomping clap after another. The archer swallowed hard against his throat, his back against the wall as he watched the shadow of a figure march down to his level. Motionless, he narrowed his eyes as he desperately attempted to make out the silhouette’s identity. It was far too tall to be Aleksei, which was a small comfort against the flight or fight instinct that was regurgitating throughout his bloodstream. Broad shoulders ruled out the Ringmaster’s slim outline, that was for certain, and he doubted in confident extent that Theodorus would be caught in anything but a stunning garb. Not the dreary armor that his intruder sported—that much he could clearly see in the dim lighting.

“Who’s there? Don’t _hide from me_.” 

The color drained from Nelles’ face. That was Praxitus’ voice, he would know it anywhere, but it was gruff. Breathy, and shaken, like the man in question was coming apart with every exhaust from his lungs. It provided no certain acquisition for him, for he knew that they were not the same people they had been during their time at the school. Faced with a dilemma, Nelles resigned to think about his options logically: announce his presence and identify himself—hope that Praxitus would take well to his being there—or remain unseen and pray that he would not be noticed. The latter seemed pitiful; how far he had come to merely scamper away in fright? Trailing his finger along the ridge of the arrow notched to his bow, he unraveled himself from the position he had become frozen in, and took a step forward. 

The movement immediately earned the turn of Praxitus’ head. His hair was much longer than Nelles ever remembered it being, his bangs hung disheveled in his face whilst his thick brows were curved in an accusative manner. The armor he wore was the same as what he had always donned in their life together before this, and the realization put a pang in Nelles’ heart that reverberated throughout his chest. Despite this, he also recognized that he was not looking at the same person that he had once known and loved: Praxitus stood hunched now, like being upright was demanding more effort from him than he was willing to give. There was a vibration to the movement of his shoulders that told Nelles that he was barely containing his movement, or perhaps he had completely lost all sense of self. Either way, his fear did not abate despite the change in the situation at hand—in fact, it was heightened.

“I told you… _not to do this anymore_.” Praxitus snarled suddenly, sprinting towards him like a predator that had suddenly elected to attack. Nelles floundered, unprepared for the onslaught although he had readied his weapon some time ago. Raising it, he sloppily fired his arrow at his friend’s approaching figure, finding that it had buried within Praxitus’ shoulder plate. It would do no good there, and he subsequently learned the consequences for actions as the whipsmith tackled him to the croaking floor. “What’s _wrong_ with you? Haven’t you _tormented_ me enough?”

The demanding questions were struggling to register with Nelles, as he was quickly discovering that Praxitus had placed his hands around his throat in the wake of his initial disorientation. Slipping a small dagger from his boot, he buried it into the back of one of his former friend’s hands, successfully freeing himself from the hold that Praxitus had planted upon his esophagus. Stumbling back, Nelles grabbed his bow once again and sharply withdrew another arrow from the dutiful quiver around his shoulders. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” The archer attempted to reason, pointing the tip of his armed weapon at his friend’s chest, prepared to defend his life against someone he had once called his lover.

“Yes, you do!” Praxitus yelled back, jumping to his feet. Withdrawing his sword now, he walked Nelles backwards as the taller of the two attempted to keep some sort of distance between them. The sensation of relief he felt just by knowing that his friend was alive was gone, and against his will, he viewed the fire mage before him as a threat. Praxitus raised his free hand, and within his palm, a burst of flame became alight—it struck a deep, visceral connectum of pain and distrust in Nelles to see such a sight. Praxitus’ fire was one of his deep fears he had not been able to conquer despite their emotional relations, and once again he was finding himself a victim at the hands of it. 

“Don’t do it, Prax,” Nelles warned.

“I’m going to kill you this time, you know that?” 

A noise almost leaves him at that. This made no sense, and he was frustrated with his own confusion. Whatever had happened to Praxitus in the time they had been apart had left him undone by paranoia and pain, it did not take much for Nelles to see that. What turned his stomach over was the _hatred_ on that handsome face he had caressed and softened so many times; how he would work the twinge in Praxitus’ brow away until he slept peacefully, or aroused a smile that dented the swordsman’s dimples. Those memories were just a small number of the words he had scribbled and drawn into his momentum for the last decade or so. With that thought in mind, his heart hollowed. Just as his waist hit the back of a sofa, he let fly the arrow he had prepared, and it buried itself within Praxitus’ chest plate, screaming a distinct cling.

In his tracks, Praxitus stopped. Almost offended, or maybe he was confused? He looked down at the arrow that had penetrated his armor. Whether or not it had shattered through the chainmail underneath, Nelles was unsure, but all he could do was watch as Praxitus raised his hand to the wooden object and sizzled it into ash from the heat of his magic. Unfazed, he met Nelles’ gaze one more time, with murderous intent in his eyes. Nelles knew he had no choice now, he _ran_. Lost and disoriented, he made for the far end of the room where a set of windows dutifully glimmered, and Praxitus gave chase. 

That was one of the things he held over his companion: speed. Speed that gave his feet the ability to fly, but did nothing for his somewhat questionable coordination. The tip of his boot caught on an upturned, elderly floorboard, and he came crashing down onto his stomach. Instinctively, he turned, and just in time for the shining blade of Praxitus’ sword to touch his jugular as he was pounced upon. The man atop of him faced him with his lips curled not unlike an angered wolf. There would be no escape, and if this were to be his fate, Nelles would rather it be this way if he must die. There was no life without Praxitus in it, there was no ‘growing old’, or dying in comfort if he had to be alone. Whatever delusion Praxitus was under—whomever he thought Nelles was—he only mourned the loss of their love; a love that had defined his life and changed him as a person, it was all he wanted from this miserable existence and it had been robbed of him. There was nothing left for him, and looking up into those cold, dark eyes, he knew that to be true.

One last time, he placed his hand on his lover’s cheek, covering the scar that Marphilianitus had once bestowed upon his only son. Tears threatened to prick at his eyes—he was angry that he had failed to save Praxitus from whatever had ensnared him, but he was, in some ways, happy that this tirade no longer had to drag on. Praxitus was still as warm to the touch as he remembered, still as beautiful in the moonlight as he had been when they were younger. No matter the pain they both suffered, he would not be swayed, even now. “I love you.”  
  
“Goodness me, this has been quite the spectacle, hasn’t it?” A thin, stringy voice cooed. Nelles knew that sing-song inflection, too. It was the Ringmaster. Praxitus’ figure leaning overtop of him disallowed any view of the perpetrator in question—whom he was suspecting was standing on the second landing—and for that Nelles was somewhat grateful. Regardless of the Ringmaster’s presence, he held his former lover’s eyes until Praxitus turned away to view the Sanctums Demise cultist. When he did, the archer angled his face back to him by the gentle hold he still retained on his face, forcing the whipsmith to focus on him alone. Remorse filtered onto those stunning features, marred by the unforgiving Nirdale sunlight and enough aging that Nelles had never gotten to witness. 

“Just look at me.” The archer whispered.  
  
“You’re not safe here.” Praxitus whispered back desperately, suddenly fearful. Of course, of this Nelles was acutely aware, and although he may not have had the ability to defend himself from Praxitus, he would happily take his chances with the weak, impudent weasel that piloted the cultist group at any time. The whipsmith relented his blade from the archer’s throat, proceeding to stand on his unstable legs. It was then that Nelles got view of the religious extremist, who took his steps carefully and deliberately as he slowly became level with them. Without hesitation, he retrieved his bow and notched an arrow that he drew swiftly from his quiver, pointing the weaponry at the slim outline of R who stared mockingly back at him.

“Come now, you can’t think that you’ve done anything but damn yourself by coming here?” The Ringmaster sneered implishly just as his foot touched the last wooden floorboard. Gliding forward with an elegant mechaninity, the Ringmaster approached—unfazed by the point of the arrow that followed his every movement. Nelles held a sneaking suspicion that this was not the first time that someone had threatened R’s life. Backing away, he increased the space between himself and Praxitus, who was the apparent target in the ordeal. The Ringmaster came to stand beside the swordmaster, placing his hand on Praxitus’ shoulder. Suddenly, he found that his friend was no longer able to look at him—he stared at the machinations of the floor like much akin to an injured hound.

It angered Nelles, his fury piped hot and reverberated through his veins. It was not like Praxitus to be subdued by another person, he was an untameable spirit and saw no constraints in the mortal world. That was what made him unique—to see him defeated by the manipulation of a mere man felt criminal to the flighty archer. 

“Don’t touch him.” Nelles warned; his arm was growing tired as he held taunt the string of his bow which had gained a permanent fixation on the space between the cultist’s beady eyes. 

“Nelles… I remember you from my time at Cohald. Penet, was it? Yes, I know your family quite well. Good people. Your brother is here with us. Would you like to see him again?”   
  
The youngest of the Penet brothers faltered then, fear wiping away the blistering anger he had been subject to. “ _Iver_? What have you done with him?”

The Ringmaster chuckled faintly, shaking his head. “No, Ruben… but Iver was a fun plaything whilst he was alive.”

Sucking in a breath, Nelles readjusted, his glare returning. “Ruben abandoned us long before I ever truly came to care for him—his decisions are his own, and I care not for what has become of him. Your vain attempts to disway me are pitiful, R.” With that, he tapped each of his fingers individually against the wood, reinforcing his grip. It would take nothing more than to simply let go to end this—he could leave with Praxitus, they could go home to Ilias, Iver, and all the memories he held of their unconventional little family that he desperately wanted Praxitus to be a part of. It would never be a complete existence without his lover there; he had once thought to himself many years ago that he would follow his friend to the ends of the earth if it so came to that, and now he found himself neck deep in a conspiracy theorist’s dream and very much in the mouth of the bear, prepared to have his skull crushed by unforgiving and unseeing teeth. 

These words seemed to put trepidation in the Ringmaster, who perhaps had not been expecting such an answer. The cultist cleared his throat, raising his hand slightly to imply that he was noncommittal in the wake of the matter. “Nevertheless, my friend, you have overstayed your welcome and it would be in your best interest to leave.” 

For a moment, Nelles’ eyes flitted over to Praxitus’ face. Is that what he wanted? Despair and insecurity boroughed in his chest. This could very well be his only opportunity to leave the manor alive, but in that moment, he thought back to the musings he had had when he’d been at the murderous end of his lover’s blade just mere minutes ago—he had been prepared to die for what he believed in. He had been ready to die for Praxitus, and now, he was still willing to make that sacrifice once again. There would be no leaving the estate without his dark-haired idiot in toe, at least, not while he still had air in his chest and a bow in his palm. Strengthening his stance, he looked back at the Ringmaster, holding those grey eyes with his own, daring him to make another move.

“So be it.” The Ringmaster lamented coldly. With his raised hand, he twisted his wrist, suddenly grabbing hold of the water molecules circulating through Nelles’ blood. With a silent gasp of pain, Nelles bent at an unhuman angle, dropping his weapon as his body came under the control of another creature. Try as he might, he could barely lift his own arm to grab a hold of something, _anything—_ the pain was excruciating, he could barely breathe against the pressure stampeding his blood throughout his system. As quickly as it came, however, it went, and Nelles collapsed onto the floor before the two of them, coughing as he frantically attempted to regain his breath. Blood magic was an unholy and vile art, it did not surprise him that it was the Ringmaster’s forte, it reflected him well.

When he had recovered slightly, Nelles stood once more, facing his foe despite the cramping in seemingly all of his muscles, and the ache of his spine against the very column of his back. Even still, Praxitus did not face him, he entertained himself with the floorboards, the walls, or the furniture. It was as though he were an obedient animal, numb to the despicable actions of its master. In that sense, Nelles pondered bitterly, the nickname that this grotesque human being that stood before him had adopted ‘the ringmaster’ was befitting. Sanctums Demise was nothing more than puppets to him, and as he stood there, bravely and daringly gazing at the two of them, he understood the game.

“You’re pathetic.” 

The Ringmaster raised an eyebrow at his rude commentary, and twisted his hand once again. The pain was immediate—Nelles crumbled under the wake of it, unable to make any sound or move more than an inch at a time as his lungs struggled to perform. There was no fighting against blood magic, he had learned that from Ilias some time ago when Pasi Kovalainen had come up as a topic. There was no running from it, there was no fighting it, there was only hoping that it would cease before one suffocated. The Ringmaster was intent on forcing him to suffer. Nelles wanted to scream and thrash about—do anything to get away from the pain imbued upon him, but there was no use in it. Frantically, his eyes darted to Praxitus. The man in question was staring unblinkingly at him, the hair in his face covering his eyes and nose; he looked as though he were a stranger, and Nelles’ heart sank.

Finally, he was released again, and this time, he collapsed unto the floor, unable to move as he gripped himself tightly. 

“If Praxitus won’t kill you, I suppose I’ll just have to do it myself, huh, Nelles?” The words barely registered with its victim. Nelles could hear his own blood pumping through his ears louder than the sound of the Ringmaster’s weasel-like voice. Everything in him encouraged him to run, but he was incapable. In response to the accusative sentence, he merely huffed breathlessly back, wishing that if he were to be executed, that it would happen quickly. There was a limit to the pain one man could suffer, and when it came to blood magic, that threshold was very, very small. The Ringmaster slipped his hand into Praxitus’, withdrawing the hilt of his blade in an almost seducing manner. In the moonlight, Nelles could see it glint as it traded owners and became closer with each ominous step of the cultist’s refined shoes. 

Nelles closed his eyes, unable to witness it. Ilias had been right, ultimately—always was—he should not have come here on his own. Attempting to swallow despite how dry his mouth had suddenly become, he thought back over all of his fondest memories. Most of them involved his time with Praxitus. All the rides they’d gone on when they were younger—just the two of them, Prax’s horse, and the summer wilderness. The late nights they had spent staying up studying, and later, getting distracted with kissing. All of the pranks they pulled on staff and student alike in their time at Cohald, most especially Praxitus nearly lighting the headmaster on fire and the time they destroyed the kitchens. When they had first had sex, the last time they had had sex before Praxitus had left, and all the times they had snuck off to remote locations—the forest, a broom closet, even the bath house to fool around. All the times they had had to huddle together in their small camp while on a bounty, and the times they’d gone drinking in celebration of receiving their bounty money.

This was the way he wanted to remember his life, not by the pain that had seemed to wash everything else out. The scar, the loss, the injury, the feeling of pointlessness and exhaustion he had woken up with every day for the last three years. The resounding glide of the blade was suddenly jarring in Nelles’ ears, he had not quite been expecting it. As he prepared for his death and wondered what would come next, he waited for… something. What, exactly, he was unsure of it, but whatever it was, it was interrupted. 

The slashing of a loud whip and a pained cry replaced what would have been the sound of Nelles’ flesh tearing apart by the hand of the Ringmaster. Eyes flying open, he looked up in time to see the firelit whip that Praxitus had so mastered fly, slapping against the Ringmaster for a second time. Swallowing finally, he stood, reaching for his bow once more just as Praxitus slapped, slammed, and beat the Ringmaster with his immaculate leather weapon until the cultist was begging for him to halt from the floor. Blood stained the furniture, floorboards, and both counterparts and it was gruesome, Nelles almost felt the urge to look away. In all the years he had seen Praxitus utilize his terrifying whip, he’d never equipped it as brutally as this. Instead of allowing himself to become vulnerable once again, he raised his bow and pointed it toward the Ringmaster, who lay twitching and barely conscious before them.

“You’ve overstayed your welcome,” Praxitus sneered in his unused, gruff voice as he reached down to retrieve his sword. Placing his foot on the Ringmaster’s neck, he pressed down until the oxygen that was vital to the cultist was cut off to the rest of his unhealthy bodice. Weakly, R wrapped his hands around the whipsmith’s ankle, but it was to no avail. For a moment, Praxitus savagely watched him slowly suffocate—and Nelles was forced to observe, too, the draining color of the cultist’s face and the paling of his lips. The way his fingers curved as he became more desperate. Frowning, Nelles glanced between them, willing Praxitus to end this slow, brutal murder, but he seemed unconscious to his surroundings, as if there were second nature to him.

“Prax! Enough.” 

That seemed to draw the swordmaster from his trance, and he glanced back at the archer before he lifted his foot up. The Ringmaster sucked in a breath immediately after, but his relief was short-lived. Driving the point of his blade into the cultist’s chest, Praxitus splattered both him and the frail, dying man in blood from the force of his fatal deliverment. After which, he straightened, and watched as the light finally faded from the Ringmaster’s eyes. It seemed as though he were attempting to say something in his final moments, but he was out of breath and his wound was not assisting with such a discrepancy. When he had stopped moving, Praxitus removed his weapon and slid it into the sheath at his side. With that, he turned to Nelles, silent.

Unsure still, the archer hesitantly put his weapon back in its holster—whether or not Praxitus would attack him again remained to be seen. The person that stood before him was not the one that had kissed him gently on his forehead all those years ago, and promised to be back before Beau’s child had woken up from their afternoon nap. 

“You saved my life, thank you.”

Merely nodding back at him, Praxitus looked at the unmoving corpse of the Ringmaster that lay by his feet. “I guess we should get going. Alek and Theo will be back soon.” Seemingly suspicious still, he glanced at Nelles once more, as if to gauge if he would suddenly burst free and erupt into another being entirely. Putting it out of his mind, the archer nodded and stepped forward, placing his hand on his lover’s shoulder in order to comfort him. It was welcome, surprisingly, as the tension in the whipsmith’s brow abated. It reminded him of why he had come, and why he would be walking out with Praxitus at his side now. To save him and bring him home, that was his intention and his achievement was just at the tips of his fingers. There was a lot of recovering they must do before they could be carefree again, but regardless, that was a task for the future. For now, their horses were waiting for them, as was some bed in an inn somewhere.

Grasping the fabric of his armor, he tugged lightly on Praxitus as he swiftly made for the door from whence had come. Much to his relief, his friend follow him dutifully.  
  


* * *

  
How many times would he get weird looks from innkeepers when he ordered a room with one bed for two men? It made him laugh a little to himself as he marched up the inn’s steps to the room they had been assigned, key in hand. Praxitus was silent behind him, content to watch and wait while Nelles unlocked the door and let them both in. The atmosphere around them was indecipherable. What were you to say to someone who you had loved so dearly, and had lost for years on end, only to be reunited with them in the heat of battle? It was not exactly a general occurrence for the public to write documentation on. Making for the bed, Nelles placed himself down in order to remove his boots. Getting any rest that night would be difficult, but knowing that Praxitus was beside him again for the first time in half a decade was a comfort incomparable to any other. Idly, Praxitus hovered by the door, unsure what to do with himself.

“Come. Sit.” Nelles encouraged as he set his footwear aside, waiting patiently while the careful hero came to rest beside him. Affectionately, Nelles plucked a few bits of debris from the whipsmith’s unruly hair. “You are in need of a haircut.”

“You don’t like it?”

“Maybe I do.” It was banter, he realized. Not unlike that of which they used to engage in when they had been teenagers, and from Nelles, it earned a soft smile as he gazed at the fruits of his accomplishment for the day. “I know things are going to be different now, Prax, but I won’t let anything happen to you again. We’ll go home and figure this out together, do you understand? Our family is waiting for us, and they’ll help you. Your mother, your sister, they desperately want to see you again.”

“I know,” Praxitus admitted, suddenly sounding ashamed. As his eyes fell, Nelles tucked his finger under his descending chin and raised it as so that their gazes were locked once more. 

“I don’t know what you’ve been through, we’ll get there when we get there, but this is not your fault. I’m just happy you’re alive, that’s all that matters.”

For a moment, those words resonated in the air between them and Praxitus said nothing as if to test how they felt on his tongue. Nodding finally, he leaned his cheek on Nelles’ shoulder, gently closing his eyes and letting a soft sigh slip past his lips. Just as serenely, the archer guided his fingers through his dark hair, working knots away and organizing the heap of mess that had come to claim the top of his lover’s head. When he thought Praxitus had gone to sleep, he stirred, prepared to put them both beneath the covers, but such was not the case when the fire mage raised his head to peer at him. Nelles blinked back, waiting for him to speak, seeing as how he had that characteristic look upon his face that he always adopted when he was considering opening his mouth. 

When nothing happened and Praxitus pouted, the archer merely smiled back at him and placed a gentle kiss on his forehead.

“Come on, get your armor off. You won’t be needing it to rest anymore.”

“Get _your_ armor off.” Praxitus grumbled back with the roll of his eyes. Nelles need not watch his face change to know that tone of his voice. 

It made him smile.

**Author's Note:**

> Want to learn more about the universe where these characters are from? Check out the Discord server - to join, just shoot me a message @ cowboycruncher#7497.


End file.
